


Unlisted Side Effects of Metacetamin-Derived Opiates

by Fahye



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Illustrated, M/M, NSFW Art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-10
Updated: 2009-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fahye/pseuds/Fahye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes one look at Jim, narrows his eyes, and then points his index finger like a scalpel and snaps, "Sit," despite the fact that Jim is in fact already fucking sitting. [with art by lizardspots]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unlisted Side Effects of Metacetamin-Derived Opiates

**Author's Note:**

> The searingly hot art by the wonderful [lizardspots](http://lizardspots.livejournal.com/) that accompanies this piece is NSFW, so to be on the safe side I've linked to it from the text rather than embedding it. 
> 
> The author and artist apologise for the unremitting geekiness of the title, but as they were both medical students at the time of creation (and are now, dammit Jim, doctors!) it was probably unavoidable.

The feel of the floor against his feet is a wonder, no, a fucking _miracle_ , what with the fact that every other time he's tried to adopt any position other than tucked-in-and-comatose it's resulted in McCoy yelling WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING, SWEETCHEEKS, GET YOUR ASS BACK IN THAT BED BEFORE I HAVE YOU DECLARED INSANE AND INSTALL RESTRAINTS.

Jim's answers the last three times this happened have been:

1) And here I thought you declared me insane two hours after we met, Bones,

2) Restraints? _Kinky_ ,

and

3) I'm _fine_ , see, all parts in working order, I'll just -- _ow_ \--

but every time he's ended up dozing again, spending his time zipping to the surface of vague fevers and diving into warm black holes of sleep. He thinks he might have woken up once to find the room darkened and Spock standing there with that vague twitch of one cheek that means, _calm down, I have everything under control_ , but that could have been a dream.

The sickbay is deserted, no sounds except the reproving beeps from his vitals monitor, but Jim waits a slow count of five and then, when the simple act of putting his feet on the floor results in nothing but the slight ache of stretch, reaches over and turns it off. He feels -- remarkable. His brain's working and his tightly-bandaged shoulder feels like he just lobbed a ball a bit too hard, not like it had a few spikes of metal shoved through it -- when? Must be a couple days ago by now.

He catches sight of some folded clothes near the foot of the bed and, with great care but hardly any real pain, discards the floppy hospital pants he's been sleeping in and pulls on a pair of his own jeans. Getting a shirt over all the bandages would require lifting his arms above his head, though, and that's just a little bit more fun than he's ready for right now.

There's a sound of footsteps, walking fast, but with that peculiar heaviness that tells Jim the walker would probably be running if they could summon the energy. Sure enough, when McCoy appears in the doorway, he looks like he just rolled fully-dressed out of bed, which Jim has seen happen far too many times not to suspect that this is, in fact, what he's just done. He takes one look at Jim, narrows his eyes, and then points his index finger like a scalpel and snaps, "Sit," despite the fact that Jim is in fact already fucking sitting.

"Wonderful to see you too, darling," Jim chirps, as annoyingly as he can. The words tug a cough out of his dry throat.

"Save it, Jim, I'm too tired." But there's a flash of amusement there, bright and welcome as an engine's warp, and McCoy's hand lands on his shoulder with the fingers already moving, gentle and expert. "That hurt?"

"Nope. You fixed me."

McCoy frowns and grabs a scanner, fiddles with the settings and then aims it at Jim's bandages. "Hold still."

"I said it doesn’t hurt."

"And when it comes to your own injuries I trust you about as far as Chekov could throw Spock, James Kirk, so shut up and hold still."

Jim rolls his eyes and sits still through the scanning and the prodding and the listening and the tapping of his anatomy with tiny hammers, and McCoy scowling down at his electronic chart as though Jim feeling better is some kind of elaborate prank. Eventually, though, he exhales in a puff and bumps his fist against Jim's good arm, smiling a little. "Guess you've got a good doctor, huh, kid?"

"Yeah, he's a bit of a genius," Jim says, taking that as permission to stand up. "Pain in the ass sometimes, but he knows his stuff. Wooeee. See? All fine. Doesn’t hurt anywhere."

"You've still got therapeutic levels of metadeine in your blood. You'll be aching tomorrow morning," McCoy warns. "And maybe a bit less fucking perky."

"Wonder drugs," Jim coos, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Awesome."

McCoy shakes him off and picks up a hypospray from the nearest cart. "Just to be sure --"

"Man, you really get off on filling me up with this crap, wonder drugs or no." Jim makes a rude face and grabs it off him; his reflexes must still be sluggish, because McCoy grabs it right back and raps his forehead with it.

"Do I need to go over the part where I don't trust you?"

"Sure you do, Bones." Jim makes a final stealth attack, seizes the hypospray and shoves itinto the back pocket of his jeans, to make the point. "I'm. Fine. Where're all those sadistic minions of yours, anyway?"

"We're on the ground, Jim. The Admiral ordered a week of debriefs and shore leave following the mission, so there aren't any crewmembers aboard. Though Spock offered to stick around until your fool ass healed up."

Jim whistles. "And I bet Uhura was just leaping for joy."

McCoy grins, sudden and sharp. "Don't look at me. The argument was in Vulcan. But Spock was using _both_ his eyebrows, so I think she was saying some pretty forceful crap."

"Just you and me, then?"

"And as soon as I've slept for about ten hours, we're clearing out and I'm finding a hotel with a fantastic bar."

Jim nods, feeling strange but not uncomfortable at the idea of the Enterprise being empty but for the two of them. A pretty big tin to be rattling around in, but a familiar one. She's quiet; it's almost as though she, like them, is sore and tired from fighting and needs her downtime.

McCoy is leaning against the wall as though if he wishes hard enough he can convince the vertical surface to go horizontal and grow a few pillows. He could have had Jim transferred to the Starfleet base hospital, but he didn’t: he stayed. He let Jim wake up on his own ship, with his friend nearby.

"Hey. Bones. Thanks." Jim knocks a foot against his shin until McCoy's eyes open, and then he smiles. That's all. They don't really go in for the effusive gushy crap, not even when Jim's mildly buzzed on painkillers. "I'm sick of this place, it smells like antiseptic or some shit. C'mon."

And there's that about McCoy, too: he follows Jim without hesitation, always has. Sure, he might be following him while bitching at the top of his lungs, or following him while waving a hypospray in a threatening manner, or following him with the sole intention of dragging him back, but there's no question of him digging in his heels. Jim's learning the value of that. He's still finding his feet and sometimes he feels the weight of all the souls under his command, pressing tight at the back of his throat, treatening to choke him with the gravity of his new responsibility. He'll take care of them if it kills him. It's good to know that his best friend is around to make sure it doesn’t.

McCoy looks worn, and stretched, and his eyes are quick with concern and old jokes.

Jim dances a smirk onto his own face and starts concocting plans.

The Enterprise's corridors are lit as usual, but the bridge is a entirely different stage when bathed in natural light. Everything seems softer, deeper, nothing like the busy alertness of warp or the furious juggling act of combat. Most of the consoles are dead and silent and their chairs are rotated at every angle. Dust is sprinkled through a ray of light that strikes the floor and shows up scuff marks; the window frames no stars at all but instead a stiflingly close sky, grey and shrouded and sullen. But it's still his, Jim thinks, shivering a little in the cooler air and tapping his fingers against the black screens at Chekov's station. His command. His stomach still does something thrilled and wobbly when he thinks the words.

"Temp up five degrees," McCoy says, and there's a soft beep from the ceiling as the interior environmental control registers the command. When Jim turns around he's slumped in the captain's chair like it's a fucking hammock or something, no style at _all_ , and he's playing with his stethoscope like it’s an extension of his body, tugging down on one side and then the other. He does that after exams, after long shifts of tedious terror, whenever he's been wearing it so long that he's forgotten that it's there. "Though my life would be a whole lot quieter if you died of hypothermia."

For the first time Jim notices a half-eaten apple perched near the chair controls, and has a sudden vivid image of McCoy slouched in the chair, just like that, scowling and eating pieces of fruit in that aggressive way he has, like each one has just insulted his mother and deserves to be severely punished. Sitting in Jim's chair. Apples. Oh God, there are so many hilarious and mocking comments crowding to the front of his mouth that he _can't get any of them out_. Screw that Vulcan upbringing shtick: _this_ must be why Spock hardly says anything.

Eventually he just coughs and raises his eyebrows. "Enjoying yourself in my chair, Bones? Feeling powerful?"

"Yeah," McCoy says, slowly, "now that you mention it, I _can_ feel myself becoming more of a jackassss --"

Jim grins and shifts his weight even further forward, drawing out the hiss, his knee set snugly between the loose angle of McCoy's thighs.

They've obviously known each other way too long, because McCoy doesn't even bother with the _what the fuck are you doing_ question, even though Jim has a good answer all ready to trot out -- _taking care of you, since you did such a good job of it with me_ \--

What McCoy actually says, sounding way more pissy than anyone has the right to when James T. Kirk is this close to their dick and plans on getting a whole lot closer in the immediate future, is: "Jim, stop goddamn sniggering."

"What? I am not," Jim lies, and dives for a distraction; namely, getting his hand down where his knee is and being a whole lot clumsier than he could be while undoing McCoy's pants.

"I'm never giving you metadeine again if this is what happens," McCoy says. His voice is even -- maybe a little high, but even -- and his hands are clenched white on the arms of the chair, because Leonard McCoy is one stubborn son of a bitch.

"Yeah, whatever. Liar," Jim tells him, and leans forward all the way, until his other arm is braced against McCoy's shoulder and their faces are almost touching. He can feel the solid tension of muscle through the blue material, and digs in a bit with his fingers. "Relax." The L sound surprises him with how far it flicks his own tongue out of his mouth, far enough that it just brushes against McCoy's lips. That gets him a quiet sound, strained, and a sharpening of brown eyes dulled by fatigue, and whoa, yeah, okay, this is kind of really doing it for Jim, his best friend's mouth a few microns away and said best friend getting hard against his palm. And the chair, of course; he'd be lying if he said that this chair hasn't begun to assume a starring role in certain fantasies. But mostly it's the fact that there's this thing McCoy does with his eyebrows when he's stressed and pissed off which is unfortunately (for McCoy) _smoking_ hot, meaning that Jim is all too happy to cultivate these states of mind, out of the goodness of his crotch. Though it is totally not his fault at all, in fact it's something along the lines of a charitable act, because the whole Academy knows that if Dr McCoy ever found himself without something to be pissed off about, he would immediately go out and hunt one down and then swear at it until he felt better.

And Jim's a fair man. Mostly. Kinda. Whatever, the point is that McCoy reacts so wonderfully -- unlike Spock, who seems to have no settings whatsoever between I Suspect You Are Trying To Provoke Me, Captain, Allow Me To Read You A Numbered List Of Reasons Why This Is A Futile Endeavour and _trying to rip your fucking throat out_ \-- and Jim wouldn't wind him up if he weren't also prepared to wind him down.

Which brings them to the business at hand.

Heheh. Hand.

Jim does something experimental with his. McCoy makes that quiet growling sound again but also manages to roll his eyes, which is impressive. "Jim --"

"Okay, maybe that one was a snigger."

" _Jim_ ," he repeats, all warning and intensity that slides straight into Jim's blood, "I suppose it's pointless to ask if you went into this with some kind of plan."

"You know me," Jim says, giving in to proximity and licking across the crease of McCoy's fantastically irritated lips. "I just make this shit up as I go."

And then he peels himself away in something that might pass as one graceful movement but only if the observer were squinting or drunk, drops to his knees -- ow ow stretching new muscles _ow_ \-- and fiddles around until McCoy's dick is free and lying hot and bare in his grip. McCoy actually groans this time, and tilts his head back so that Jim has a good view of the muscles moving slowly under the skin of his neck. Gn _nh_. Oh yeah, Jim is a total fucking genius.

"You can call me Captain," Jim says, because clearly his mouth didn't get the genius memo and has no survival instinct whatsoever. He decides to go for broke and adds, in his most magnanimous tone: "If you like."

The groan becomes a glare that's just as hot if not more so, and for a moment he thinks McCoy is actually going to kick him halfway across the room, wounded shoulders and impending blowjobs and assault on a superior officer be damned, but instead the man gives a short, incredulous throb of a laugh. "You're a fucking brat and a half, Jim Kirk." His eyes are dark, his hips shifting in the chair as though the seat of it is suddenly too warm, and Jim tightens his fingers and gives his awesomest and most shit-eating grin.

["Hey, Bones," he says, "shut up and hold still."](http://lizardjunk.net/art/porn/pornstartrekdoctor.jpg)


End file.
